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“Nothing. Just imagining…”

Though what he could not imagine was why Canada would want, or need, to take over the United States. It made more sense the other way around. For the US to invade Canada. Now that would be relatively easy. As the PM implied, Luxembourg could probably do it.

But again, why bother?

No, all this talk of invasion was misdirection. What they were dealing with was something to do with water. And maybe fire. FEDS.

He stared out the window at the first snow of the year and tried to see clearly.

That night Jean-Guy again drove him to the theater. Snow was still falling, but lighter. Just fluffy flurries now. The roads were clear, having been plowed and sanded and salted.

They took Myrna’s all-wheel drive vehicle this time.

The volunteer at the door looked perplexed when they handed her their tickets. She’d been on the night before when the same two men had come to the show.

She almost asked, but seeing their grim faces, she decided best to just rip the tickets in half, hand them back, and leave it at that.

“He’s not coming, patron,” whispered Beauvoir, two-thirds of the way through.

Gamache took a deep breath but said nothing. He waited until the end. Until the scattered applause had died and the cast had left the stage. Until the lights had come up and there was the sound of a vacuum cleaner.

Until the usher approached, asking them to leave.

And they did, Jean-Guy walking beside Armand and silently cursing Whitehead.

“Let me call the General,” said Jean-Guy over coffee the next morning. They were alone in the kitchen. “Better still, I can go back to DC, see him in person.”

“Why?” asked Armand.

“You know why. To convince him to come up, to see you.” Beauvoir felt the sting of insult. That Chief Inspector Gamache should sit for two nights running, like some heartsick teen hoping his date showed.

It had broken Jean-Guy’s heart to see Gamache walking slowly back to the car. It was humiliating. If nothing else, Beauvoir wanted to give the General a piece of his mind.

“I didn’t really expect him to show,” admitted Armand.

“Why not?”

“You do know what I was asking him to do,” said Armand, getting up.

“But you sent him another ticket for tonight.”

“Never give up hope. Isabelle?” he called.

“Ready, patron,” came the reply from the study. “She’ll meet me at headquarters.”

“Bon.” He looked at his watch. Just enough time to get to his own appointment in Montréal.

Snow, not thick but heavy, coated the village. In the early-morning light Three Pines and the surrounding forest sparkled. The snow, fresh and bright, lay on the ground, on the roofs, on the cars. The trees were bowed and bent close to breaking under the weight of it.

All around the village residents were swatting branches with brooms to knock the snow off the limbs before they broke. As they did, the branches sprang back, sending puffs of snow into the air, so that the village looked like a series of very small blizzards.

On his way to the car Armand took hold of a large pine branch that was bowed to the ground and about to break. When he gave it a yank, it detached so quickly it dumped snow all over him.

“How could you not see that coming?” laughed Reine-Marie, using her broom to brush him off.

He smiled and thought, if it was the only thing he failed to see coming, it would be a good day.

A few minutes later Armand and Isabelle were heading into Montréal. Once in the city, Isabelle dropped him off on boulevard René-Lévesque for his meeting, while she continued on to Sûreté headquarters.